


dulce de leche

by hurryup



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Fluff, Food Porn, Light Angst, M/M, Motifs, Too Much Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8041573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup
Summary: Allen is adorable, Link is flummoxed, and (as it turns out) baking is a fairly cathartic emotional outlet.





	dulce de leche

Bakewell tart was an English shortcrust pastry; one Link had eaten before, but never prepared. Well, until now, that was. The confection itself consisted of a baked shell beneath layers of jam, frangipane, and a topping of flaked almonds. Sometimes an icing was layered over, depending on who was preparing it, or a dollop of whipped cream. Almond fondant could also replace the frangipane centre; and, in commercial renditions, candied fruit made a suitable replacement for the jam base.  
  
The point of all this?  
  
Well.  
  
Allen Walker was English.  
  
Ethnically, at the very least. It only took a quick peruse through his file to figure that much out. Of course, Link didn't know exactly where he was born; whether it was the centre of London or some damp backwater, but chances were, that wasn't terribly important to Allen, either. In fact, the gesture would probably be lost on Allen; it didn't make much logical sense in the first place.  
  
The kitchen was cold. He thought of the nights Allen would follow him in here, sitting and sometimes talking while Link made pies, cakes, bread. He was always stealing bits of dough, despite Link's protests. He'd commented that Link seemed different when he was baking.  
  
"I don't know what it is, exactly," Allen had shrugged, waving a hand vaguely. "Maybe it's that you're more relaxed? That seems likely."  
  
"I'm _always_ this relaxed," was Link's response, dead serious. Allen made a valiant attempt to conceal his laugh with a cough. Valiant, but fruitless. He'd settled on fixing Allen with a withering stare. Allen took his retribution by stealing a spoonful of batter.  
  
Alone, he felt somewhat hyperaware of Allen's absence. He supposed that was a sure sign that somewhere along the way, he'd become accustomed to having him at his side. He had a reprieve of sorts, however, from that duty; more or less due to the fact Allen would spend the next few days confined to his bed. Well. As much as Allen could be confined anywhere. Their recent was a little rough on him, so to speak. Link thought of the sharp, unnatural angle at which his arm had bent, and cringed internally.  
The whole thing could have been avoided, he was certain, if it weren't for Walker's own propensity for self-sacrifice. _Ridiculous_. Link would certainly have stern words with Walker-- well. Once he stopped looking so sulky, that was. Definitely.  
  
He worked the dough over in his hands, glancing over at the recipe book. The tart served eight. He paused, remembered this was Allen he was baking for, and decided to double the recipe. Hopefully, it would be enough.  
  
Link cooled the dough, waited, then lined it with foil and filled it with baking beans. He sat and waits while the flan baked; golden-brown in the hot oven. Beat sugar and butter and cream into a delirious whip; cracking and grounding almonds with the fine edge of a knife before tossing them into the filling. He beat eggs into the mix, pored over his book, removed the pastry from the oven and let it stand.  
  
He wondered what kind of fruit Allen liked. Bakewell tart was typically served with an inner layer of raspberry jam. That'd probably be fine. He spread it over the base of the pastry; macerated soft, gleaming in the light. Bright, bright red. When Link and the other children used to eat raspberries as children, they'd remark that the red juice running down their lips and chin looked just like blood. They'd been wrong. But back then, they'd never seen so much blood; they'd learn better.  
  
Bustling about quietly, he sifted icing sugar with vanilla, and, as an afterthought, a splash of chambord. Flaked almonds. Was Allen Walker allergic to almonds? When Link had inquired to Jerry as to whether Allen had any outstanding preferences or allergies, he'd just blinked and laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day.  
The tart came out of the oven. With slow, drizzling motions, he iced it and topped it with fresh fruit. Picture perfect, steaming gently.  
  
He let it sit for a half hour before moving to find Allen.  
  
He'd seen Walker take a few serious blows in their time together, but the sight of the bruises mottling his shoulder and upper arm nearly caused him to wince aloud. The luscious, almost navy discoloration accumulating beneath his pale skin let Link know the bruises still had a long way to go until they'd be fully healed. Still, Allen seemed surprisingly blithe. The mark of someone know'd known worse, perhaps. Allen plucked at he edges of his bandages, lost in thought.  
  
"Walker," he said, nudging through the door. Allen's head snapped up, half in surprised.  
  
"Link?"  
  
For some reason, that had him holding back the sound of a sigh. Instead, he nodded down at the plate balanced between his wrist and elbow. "I brought you something. Consider it a get-well gift."  
  
He could see the tension drain from Allen's shoulders.  
  
"I thought you were going to lecture me," Allen said, but his voice was faraway, distracted by the sight and smell of a still-warm pastry. His eyes were enormous, hard to look at.  
  
"Later, perhaps." He set the plate down on Allen's side table. "For now, eat."  
  
"You don't need to tell me twice."  
  
He pulled the tart onto his lap and dug into it, not even bothering to slice it. Link hovered awkward, at the foot of Allen's bed.  
  
"It tastes familiar, somehow," Walker paused, looked up at Link. And there was this smile. It softened his whole face. Link certainly didn't blush, and certainly didn't fidget with his cufflinks. "It's amazing. Thanks for thinking about me."  
  
He went on, shovelling tart into his mouth, humming around it contentedly. Link's heart pulled unexpectedly.  
  
It was for the best, he supposed, that his working relationship with Walker warmed to a degree less likely to have them both dying of hypothermia. The friendlier he became with Walker, the easier it would be to conduct his work without obstruction.  
  
Well, that was the theory. In practice, Walker's friendliness was at times... disconcerting. Sometimes, Walker smiled at him so blindingly, Link's stomach would twist into a bizarre fluttering as though he’d just eaten a butterfly.  
  
_Definitely_ disconcerting.

* * *

 

That, of course, doesn't prevent him from returning to the kitchen the next morning.  
  
Link sifted flour and baking powder onto a dry sheet, then moved on, chopping dates into fine slivers. Somewhere, along the way, he had the idea that water could be substituted water for black tea; which he imagined would be in the same range of flavour as the traditional sticky toffee pudding cake.  
  
He wasn't entirely certain what was driving him to do it. He did, however, have the vague certainty it was connected to that which he'd felt in Allen's room the day prior, the tight twist in his chest. Something bound, inextricably and inexplicably, to Allen's smile. The glow of it. Either way, he wasn't entirely sure it was something he wanted to think about, and baking was as good a distraction as any-- especially once the paperwork was done.  
  
He beat the butter and sugar until they reached a light consistency, then cracked an egg and a measure of vanilla. Once blended, he added the dates to the mixture. A pudding cake, he knew, shouldn't be baked to the same texture as any other pastry, and so he kept a close eye on it carefully as it rose in the oven.  
  
He used his spare time to boil down a toffee sauce, unwrapping butter and mixing it briskly with heavy cream and brown sugar. The cake came out once it was set and firm on top; and he drizzled the sauce on top. Whipped cream. Blueberries. The scent was heavenly.  
  
If the words thank you for thinking of me were replaying in a frantic cadence at the back of Link’s mind, well. That wasn't really anyone's business, was it?  
  
He made his way to the room he and Allen shared, pushing in this time with greater confidence.  
  
"You have flour in your hair," Allen noted, squinting up at him from bed. Link nearly blanched for a moment, self-conscious.  
  
"Oh. Well, I came from the kitchen straight away," Link explained. He reached a hand up and touched his hair; sure enough, a trace of white powder came away on his glove. "I was worried it'd become too soggy."  
  
"Worried what would--" Allen stopped short, registering the pudding cake. Or perhaps simply the rich scent of it. He appeared to inhaled deeply, and came to attention instantly. It was sort of cute, frankly. "You're really spoiling me, huh?"  
  
"Evidently," Link agreed soberly. All the same, Allen scooted forwards, looking pleased.  
  
Allen rustled eagerly for a fork, and, after a moment's deliberation, Link Link moved to sit on the edge of Allen's bed. It'd been awkward last time, hadn't it, with the standing? Either way, scrutinising Allen intensely as he took the first bite. Something like anxiety dropped in his stomach.  
  
"It's not too dense? Or too overpowering? I'm concerned--"  
  
"Link," Allen interrupted, voice wavering with the breath of a laugh. "It tastes. Delicious."  
  
"Oh." He cleared his throat. "That's... that's good."  
  
Allen rolled his eyes, taking another enthusiastic bite. Link realized, with a note of something resembling horror, that he was nearly blushing.  
  
Damned thing. He willed himself to calm down.  
  
"I hate being trapped in my room," Allen sighed over his cake, switching conversational tracks. He frowned deeply, creasing his brow just slightly. "You know, Lenalee caught me trying to get up and around yesterday. I thought she was going to kill me."  
  
"If you weren't so reckless, you wouldn't be trapped here in the first place," Link reminded him loftily. He folded his arms, and Allen groaned.  
  
"Oh, so _now_ I get the lecture."  
  
"You know full well there's nothing to be gained by throwing yourself into danger--"  
  
Allen waved him off, growing temperamental. "Nothing to be gained? I _save lives,_ Link!"  
  
"Well, you won't be able to save any more lives if you lose your own," Link continued, rough. The memory of it was jagged-bright over the tapestry of Link's memories-- Allen, deadly pale and bleeding over the tiles. Beautiful and terribly red. Like the stain of fresh fruit of Tewaku's mouth. That swarm of akuma. The maddening, insistent lurch of Link's heart in his own chest as their blades came down over the expanse of Allen's skin. "So don't scare me like that, alright?"  
  
There was a beat.  
  
"Alright," Allen said. Sulky, he shoved another forkful of cake into his mouth. That was, apparently, counterproductive to their argument; his eyes misted over instantly. "Stupid delicious cake," he said, addressing the plate in front of him rather than Link. "I'm trying to be mad at him."  
  
The silence went on for a moment. Link cast his eyes down at the bedsheets, awkward.  
  
"Were you really scared for me?" Allen continued. Link blinked. His voice hesitated, languished-- then rumbled on, quiet.  
  
"Yes. I was."  
  
"Oh," Allen said. He bowed his head. "Then. Then I really am sorry."  
  
There were crumbs at the corner of his lips; pale, pink lips. Lovely in the subtle arch of their shape. His jaw worked around the cake; the sweetness of it collapsing into his mouth, Link knew, into a dense, sticky, soft texture. All the while, something seemed to collapse in Link's heart. It was as sweet as cake, but bitter, too, like blood. The tang of it staggered him.  
  
Whatever it was.

* * *

 

"What the hell is _that_?"  
  
The sound of Kanda's voice came as a surprise to Link. He lifted his head from the movements of his knife, meeting the Exorcist's gaze. He seemed a little bewildered and, for no apparent reason, annoyed. Link highly suspected annoyance was, at this point, not an exceptional state for Kanda, but rather, a life philosophy.  
  
He followed Kanda's eyes to his own cutting board; the shortbread biscuits he'd been crushing with the flat edge of his knife; the dark, open jars of conserve.  
  
"It's for Walker," he explained, short.  
  
"But what _is_ it."  
  
Link sighed. "European fusion cheesecake on a crumb of crushed, buttered biscuits; topped with a blackberry compote and honey."  
  
Kanda blinked, deadpan. "You know that beansprout can't tell the difference between fine dining and a pack of instant noodles."  
  
Link went on pointedly crushing biscuits.  
  
"I think I saw him eat a cracker off the floor last week," Kanda continued.  
  
Without breaking eye contact once, Link reached across the counter and opened a fresh container of mascarpone cheese.  
  
For a long moment, Kanda simply stared. Then he huffed, collected himself, and rounded to exit the kitchen.  
  
"Whatever. You want to waste your time? Be my guest."  
  
Still, Link thought he saw the flash of a smile.  
  
(Later, it would occurr to him that was the longest conversation the two of them had ever held.)

* * *

 

"Your friends are unusual," Link would tell Allen later as they shared the cheesecake. Allen scoffed, busying himself with his food. He seemed terrifically fond of the compote, scraping blackberry off of his plate and sucking on the spoon, making long, satisfied noises. In the name of his own peace of mind, he tried not to read too much into it.  
  
"Kanda isn't my friend."  
  
_Liar_ , Link thought, fond.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Inspec-- _ohmygodwhatareyoudoing_."  
  
Link had been at the final, critical phase when he heard the Bookman apprentice rounded the corner, stepping into the dim light of the kitchen. Link lowered his torch and released the handle, flame snuffing out.  
  
"Crème brûlée."  
  
Lavi's eyes flitted to the potted custard for a brief moment. Then he looked back to the torch in Link's hands, extremely wary.  
  
"Is that a _flamethrower_?"  
  
"It's a flambé torch," Link corrected, severe. Lavi seemed unconvinced.  
  
"You were shooting a jet of fire a foot wide."  
  
"... It's a very large flambé torch."  
  
"There's a skull painted across the side."  
  
"Komui designed it."  
  
Lavi stared at Link flatly.  
  
"It might be a flamethrower," Link admitted.  
  
Lavi whistled, heckling. "You have fun with that, Inspector."  
  
"I will."

* * *

 

"Lavi's worried you plan on burning the Order down," Allen informed Link, his tone factual.  
  
He pierced the caramelised exterior of the crème brûlée, his smile somewhat wry. He'd begun to heal up quite well over the past few days, Link noted, examining the younger boy from where he sat cross-legged across from Link.  
  
His bruises had begun to fade into a shade of yellow that, while no more attractive than those fresh blues and blacks, struck Link as definitely softer. He'd unwound some of his bandages, exposing the vertical gash of his wounds to the air. They too seemed to have healed well-- though it still pained Link to see them. Still, Allen was well enough to make jaunts around Headquarters. It was a relief, Link thought, to see the colour return to his cheeks.  
  
"He needn't concern himself," Link returned, affable. "I'm overworked, not _homicidal_."  
  
"That's a thin line, sometimes," Allen's grin widened. Grinning with that mouth Link loved.  
  
_I want to kiss you,_ Link thought, abrupt. Then, darkly; _What I want is impossible._ The one thought electrified him; the other just burned. Raspberries and blood. The bitter with the sweet.  
  
Aloud, he said, "Maybe we should try a panna cotta next?"

* * *

 

Early sunrises, mornings in half-darkness. It wasn't exactly insomnia that pushed Link to, again and again, sleep late and wake early; on some level, he was certain he could sleep as much as any other person, if that was what he wanted. Rather, he thought it must be some kind of discipline, or alternatively, some kind of obsessive energy that had him up and running at all times.  
  
There was never enough hours in the day for everything that needed doing. There was always something more.  
  
And so, before the sun had quite risen, he was in the kitchen. Harried, exhausted, he washed his hands. Mochiko flour, tofu, sugar, vanilla. Link kneaded them roughly with his hands. He hoped he hadn't woken Allen when he'd left, Allen who looked far too young when he was sleeping. Allen, whose lashes fanned low over his cheekbones. Allen, who Link yearned to see so peaceful at all times, if such a mercy was possible of God...  
  
There was a sound at the front of the kitchen. Link paused.  
  
"Oh. Hello, Inspector," Lenalee said, cautious. Her hair was still rumpled with sleep. Looking for a glass of water, maybe. Or an early breakfast.  
  
"Good morning," he returned, startled.  
  
She looked at him. He looked at her. She looked at him. Belatedly, he realized what it was exactly she was staring at; his hair was up in a high ponytail, he was visibly exhausted, and, most importantly, he was covered up his elbows in white mochiko flour.  
  
Finally, she dropped her gaze, eyes landing on the board in front of Link. Bamboo skewers. A bowl of matcha green tea powder. Fresh cherries. Directly beneath his hands, a small, forming pile of doughballs.  
  
"Is that..."  
  
She stopped herself short, and froze. For a moment, Link froze too, having no idea what to expect from her.  
  
Then she erupted into laughter.  
  
It was a nice laugh, bright and honest. Her shoulders jumped up and down with each giggle; a motion that struck him as distinctly girlish. All the same, Link was thoroughly mystified.  
  
"Is there... a problem?"  
  
"It's nothing bad, I promise!" She insisted, wiping at her eyes. "I just feel like I'm seeing you in a new light."  
  
He looked down at the dough in his hands. Some of it was crusting just beneath  
  
"And which light would that be?"  
  
"Oh, you know," she said, fanning her laughter behind one delicate hand. An insufferably vague responses-- but Link would let it slide. Her expression softened, unreadable.  
  
"Hey, you want me to help you out?"  
  
The face he made in response must have bordered between derisive and just plain pained, because she immediately pouted, sliding up to join him at the counter.  
  
"Come on. I might not be a master pâtissier  like you, but I just have to roll the dough out into balls, right?"  
  
"Alright, _alright_ ," he said, acquiescing. Then, quiet, "Thank you."  
  
She rolled up her sleeves and busied herself with rolling the mochiko dough into rough, uneven clusters. For his part, Link set water to a boil over the stove and went to work both pitting cherries and removing the stems of strawberries. They worked in companionable silence for a long while before Lenalee spoke again.  
  
"This is for Allen, huh?"  
  
There was something knowing in the gentle lull of her tone. He couldn't think of an answer that would both dignify the question and his feelings towards it. Instead, he just nodded, swallowing thickly.  
  
"He'll like this," she said, sotto.  
  
Link swallowed thickly. He moved to roll out more dough.  
  
"You know, Link. In... in a way, I think I'll always have a tough time trusting you. The Central Agency..."  
  
Her hands tightened around the dough; the ball she'd been working on crumbled and collapsed between her slender fingers.  
  
"I know," Link said, quick. He'd read her file. Abrupt, she shook her head.  
  
"No, that's wrong. What I mean is... I want to trust you." She paused, again. "I think you're alright, Link."  
  
"You'd say that to Central's watchdog?"  
  
"Somehow, I'm beginning to have a hard time seeing you that way," she laughed breathily.  
  
"Hm."  
  
He scooped up a handful of dumplings and, with great care, dropping them into the pan. They fell away, giving off tremendous clouds of steam where they broke the surface. The water hissed, roiled.  
  
"Allen will like this," she said again.  
  
"I certainly hope so," he agreed. The understanding between them had it's own taste.

* * *

 

When he opened the door, balancing the steel platter in one hand, Allen was already out of bed. He looked good. Healthy, now. He'd been fiddling with something on Link's desk, possibly out of boredom; his lean figure curved against it with an attractive sort of laziness. 

"You look well," Link said. It cut a little wrong-- too fond, too soft.  
  
Allen inclined his head in Link's direction and smiled-- then, he noticed what Link was carrying. His eyes went wide. His lips parted. He let whatever it was he'd been touching fall back to the table, forgotten.  
  
"Link," Allen said, smiling slowly into his own hands. "Did you make me... dango?"  
  
"Hanami dango, actually," Link hurried to explain. For some reason, he felt terribly flustered. Perhaps it had something to do with the way simple happiness was blooming over Allen's face, warm and perfect. He fidgeted, coughed, set the platter on the desk with deliberate motions. "Mitarashi dango is more of a savoury recipe, as you should know. There are, however, many popular dessert renditions to the dango recipe, including hanami dango--"  
  
"Link."  
  
"-- Which is traditionally eaten during during the Japanese sakura viewing season..."  
  
" _Link_."   
  
And then, Allen had both hands braced against Link's shoulder, his eyes bright and sincere-- and God, if _that_ didn't get his attention.  
  
"... Yes?"  
  
"I'm going to kiss you," Allen said. Point-blank.  
  
"Oh," Link said. He short-circuited. "Alright."

Allen's body slipped up against his. He watched, suspended in the moment, as he angling his jaw ever so gently in Link's direction. He had to tilt her head just so. What must have been seconds seemed to be years. Already holding himself so tautly and so tensely, he froze, unable to move for the beautiful agony of his anticipation.  
  
Allen's mouth pressed against his, just barely. Soft, sweet. Like the petals of a flower. Link didn't move. Breathed only shallowly. Didn't even reciprocate, not immediately, wrecked by that unspeakably slight sensation. He wanted desperately to arc forwards, pull Allen into him--  
  
Allen reached up with his right hand to cradle Link's cheek.  
  
And that was enough to destroy his resolve.

Link surged forwards, chasing his lips. His hands rose to cradle the back of Allen's head, bringing his mouth to Link's own and kissing him with slow, searing intent. Again. Again. Again. They seemed to melt against each other-- and there was no war, no Central, no orders. Just a quiet room, shared between two people. Soon the reverie would break, and they'd have to figure it all out, what this meant. Well.  
  
Maybe they would. And maybe they wouldn't. Maybe it was enough just to have this moment.  
  
They broke apart, fighting for breath.  
  
" _Shit_ ," Allen said feelingly.  
  
"You know," Link said, breathless, mindless. "I've been wanting to do that for a while now."  
  
A laugh, one Link felt rather than heard. "Is that so?"

"Unfortunately."  
  
"That's hardly professional of you, Inspector."  
  
"Don't lecture me, Walker." His hands fell to Allen's waists, loving the feel of it, loving the way Allen positively sighed at that slight contact.  
  
"What, that's your job?"  
  
"Precisely," Link murmured.  
  
"Well, I'm going to kiss you again. Is that alright?"  
  
Link nodded, slack, and closed his eyes.  
  
There was nothing more bittersweet, he thought, than the explorative touch of Allen's mouth. But then again-- some days, it just seemed like enough that the world would allow any sweetness to exist in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> [ bakewell tart ](http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/sites/default/files/recipe_images/recipe-image-legacy-id--559459_11.jpg), [ sticky toffee pudding cake](http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4103/5032773181_18225c96e1.jpg), [ blackberry cheesecake](http://www.you-made-that.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/nobakeblackberrycheesecake.jpg), [ creme brulee ](http://siftandwhisk.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/VanillaBeanCremeBrulee05.jpg), and finally, [ hanami dango! ](https://ohmyomiyage.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/hanami-dango2.jpg)
> 
> some significantly less weird fic, for now. i've been thinking of doing some multi-chaptered stuff for this fandom, so we'll see how that goes.
> 
> i've never baked in my life, but i did follow recipes i found online. i really wanted this fic to be funny and fluffy, but angst and canonverse have a way of going hand-in-hand, huh.
> 
> subject to edits because it's late and i can't beta for shit.
> 
> hurryupfic @ tumblr


End file.
